Standing Still
I looked out at my journey.
And I saw a head of broccoli:
All sorts of paths heading out from one stem.
Or at least giving the impression of heading out.
Because each path ended in a burst.
A flourishing.
But, ultimately, going nowhere.
A forest of trees – but no continuing on.
Each tree becoming an ending in itself.
So I just stood there.
Knowing that each path was, essentially, that exact same as the others.
It made no difference which one I chose.
So I just stood there.
And wondered if I am now in a time of waiting.
An inverse journey.
I don’t go.
You come.
You come to me.
My journey is now waiting.
Hatching? perhaps.
Letting the inside of me go wandering about.
Tripping over stones in the path.
While the outside of me just waits.
Waits for the inside of me to do her thing.
Like a patient mother carefully watches her child.
Who am I, anyway?
I have nothing good to say about myself today.
It all feels like a failure.
Looking at the concept of a journey, and seeing a standing still-ness.
Stillness as an expression of movement.
And yet this is where I am today.
With an odd contentment.
Of peace.
In the broccoli wood.
Alone.
Motionless.
This is my definition of journey.
Let’s go!
Here.
Just here.
Alone.
A forest full of paths
But having not one path
Just promises of paths
Just beginnings
And what rests in the burstings at the end of every path?
What roosts there?
What curls up in silence and contentment?
Perhaps that is what is before me because that is where I am.
On a journey of curling up in silence and contentment.